*This piece is dedicated to that most poetic community of artists & artists in spirit who currently or who have ever wished, hoped, & prayed to make a comfortable living exclusively on the profits of her or his art, same as a business person does from what her or his business earns, same as the working class does (esp. w/ proper union protection) & questioned his or her sense of self worth in the heat of basic human emotion—a feeling that it seems as though she or he embodied that all too cliché “starving artist” stereotype, which might be brought to one’s mind when looking at van Gogh’s “The Starry Night,” or reading Nietzsche—may we sing together in harmony Don Henley’s romantic lyric: “in a New York Minute/ everything can change” & Aerosmith’s dreamy line: “Dream on!” & Billy Joel’s words of wisdom: “It’s better than drinking alone,’ et al., & et cetera…
The moon, that not too warm, not too cold, a bit humid but at least pleasantly windy, starry last night of August, was nearly full, I had noted, (& I looked it up, ‘Twas “in a Waxing Gibbous phase” with “an illumination of 97 percent”…according to moongiant.com) while walking our dog Yago before bed. ‘Twas an overall lovely night; the poeticness & picturesqueness of family life that a dog can add to a currently childless marriage when she or he happily hops onto bed with the two of you; “and you come to me on a summer breeze, keep me warm in your love,” as the Bee Gees sing.
Aside from the general & most unfortunately persisting tragedies of mortality, illness, & injustice (in the midst of a devastating pandemic as we were, for example), my only significant qualm was that I was broke, bankrupt, & in a lot of debt & trying to “make it” as an artist… a qualm which no affirmation/mantra reiterating the virtue of patience & that “I CAN DO THIS” could possibly assuage. ‘Twas the strong forceful wind of personal conviction & hope versus hurricane-like foggy bouts of cluelessness and I thought: what if, ‘maybe just maybe,’ my secret weapon to gain an edge just might be a little concoction of prayer and fantasy, stirred, as if with a honey’d teaspoon, in a teacup that’s steaming; pleasant honey & jasmine massaging one’s olfactory parts.
To FEEL I accurately conveyed to any possible “powers that be,” my aching, pining, yearning, imploring wish-hope to make good money selling my art, I prostrated before THE DREAM OF such powers that just might be and spoke:
“Dear powers that be, whether intelligent/omniscient/omnipotent force inclined to respond to human supplication with blessing, or arbitrary totality of astrophysics rendering this prayer an exercise in channeling, to whatever extent, that which exists within the human unconscious to compel neurons to attract to one’s self, via thought and miscellaneous mystical force, what one most desires…I realize in light of noting the abundance of inequity and discrepancy with respect to ‘quality of life’ from health to wealth on this Earth, that my hopes are nothing more important than anyone else’s…but still…if you would indulge me…”